Explode
by Drown Me In Blue
Summary: It was always a fight with them, because neither really understood how not to fight. It was automatic, simple, and as familiar as breathing. It was also addictive, and now that they'd started, they couldn't even think about stopping.


**Pairing: **_Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Ichigo Kurosaki_

**Music** Bad Romance_, by Lady Gaga_

**Word count:** ~ 1500

**Rating:** M

**A/N: **_Another one I can blame __**Satarudd**__ for, because she gives awesome plot monster-things that get stuck in my brain. So here there be violence, Ichigo, Grimmjow, and smut—which, to be fair, was not exactly in the request, but my plotish-thing ran away with me. _

* * *

_**Prompt 20: **__Explode_

* * *

They faced each other across an open expanse of ground, both tensed and ready. Tension hummed between them, compounded by the faintest traces of old wounds reopened and demons brought to light. Neither of them were simple; neither could neatly set this old rivalry aside and move on, not when it constantly brought up so many things that they had been trying to push down.

Grimmjow growled low in his throat and took a half-step forward, glaring at the shinigami who was staring so fiercely at him. "Well? Ya gonna defend yourself? Give an excuse? You've always got one of those, don't ya, ya little bastard?"

Ichigo glared right back at him, and those eyes were still the same as the first time he had seen them, a brown that should have been plain and drab but that was shot through with gold, glowing with defiance and pride and a spirit that couldn't be crushed, no matter how hard Grimmjow tried. He wasn't even sure _why_ he tried any more, because to lose that spirit would be to lose everything that had drawn him back after Aizen's defeat.

_Ichigo_ had drawn him back, and he didn't want to lose him.

"Jackass," Ichigo hissed, hands clenching into fists, and Grimmjow savored the reaction that he could draw out of the normally calm shinigami—because, despite his temper, Ichigo _was_ calm, keeping his head and his fierce focus in battle, never wavering. That Grimmjow could crack his cool was almost as satisfying as winning an actual round with him.

Folding his arms over his chest, the shinigami took a step back and surveyed him with narrowed eyes. "You want an excuse from me? Where's yours? I was with Urahara, trying to stop him from blowing up all of Karakura with his stupid goddamn experiments. Where were _you_? Gone looking for Hollows again, even though I _told_ you Soul Society is getting suspicious?"

But Grimmjow couldn't hear his words anymore. All he could focus on was those _eyes_ staring at him with fury and righteousness and so much damn pride that it was almost suffocating. He'd never met another creature able to sink to its knees and still regard him like he was a worthless piece of dirt, but Ichigo managed it.

Grimmjow couldn't tell if he loved it or hated it.

The line between the two was so thin that he no longer cared.

"Those _goddamn eyes_," he snarled, lunging forward with one fist raised to strike. "I can't fucking _stand them_!"

Ichigo met him blow for blow, fierce, proud eyes burning with something that could have been disgust, or hate, or love, or maybe something else entirely, and it no longer mattered that neither could even remember what their argument had been about in the first place.

* * *

The only one who understood their relationship was Kenpachi. The captain of the Eleventh perched on the windowsill of his office like some grotesque bird while Ichigo wrapped bandages around yet another wound that would, like the others, probably scar, leaving one more mark to add to the collection that seemed to be forever growing exponentially. Even Yachiru was absent at the moment, and silence between them was thick, even if it was companionable.

Finally, as Ichigo secured the last strip of bandaging, Kenpachi shifted and looked at him, cataloguing the new black eye, the three visible bruises already turning yellow, and the slight limp he was walking with, and snorted.

"Your little posse's gonna go apeshit when they see you," he commented.

Ichigo shrugged and settled against the wall beside the window, pouring out a measure of sake for each of them. "I just tell them it was training and they don't ask. They seem to have gotten the impression that you and I are going head to head every time we've got a spare minute, though."

Kenpachi chuckled and accepted one of the cups, downing it in a single swallow. "Fighting to the death ain't so fun when one of the fighters refuses to let the other get there. I have to pick on Ikkaku now if I want a real fight. You're too much of a pussy now that you're taking it up the ass."

Far more calmly than he once might have, Ichigo rolled his eyes and poured them both more sake. "Yeah, well, maybe if you got laid more you'd find out there's more to life than just fighting."

With another snort, the captain shook his head, but didn't argue. "Gotta find someone that Yachiru can't run off, then, don't I? No one like that yet." He surveyed the substitute's bruises again, and then asked, "Who won?"

"Hmm." Ichigo closed his eyes, savoring the burn of the alcohol just as much as he did the memory of yesterday's fight—fists pounding, bodies weaving, blows flying, both of them going all-out with no hesitation or fear of hurting the other. They'd never been scared of that. Fighting was the only way they really connected—fighting and fucking. They'd never been able to talk things out like "civilized" people, but somehow, even six years after the return of Ichigo's powers, they hadn't faltered once.

If this was love, it was one fucked up version of it, but it worked for them.

"Depends on what you mean," he finally answered, smiling slightly. "But I think it was a draw."

They'd both come at the same time, after all. Ichigo counted that as a win on both their parts.

* * *

Another day, another fight—it was always a fight with them, no matter what, because neither really understood how _not_ to fight. It was automatic, simple, and as familiar as breathing.

It was also addictive, and now that they'd started, they couldn't even think about stopping.

Grimmjow pinned Ichigo's wrists above his head with both hands and attacked his mouth with teeth and lips, biting and nipping until Ichigo fought back, drawing blood that had to be kissed away. They were both breathing hard, struggling against each other as the bed rocked, sliding a few inches over the floor. Ichigo snarled into the kiss, aching, body bowing as he fought for some control, sought some way to force Grimmjow to move faster, harder. Grimmjow growled in return, his thrusts becoming rapid and frenzied.

The tension was building between them, cresting like a rogue wave, and Ichigo managed to wrench his hands free to claw at the former Espada's shoulders and chest, his nails raking bloody furrows in tanned skin. He was almost there, body shaking—nearly convulsing—with the need to come, and he hissed out a curse and leaned forward, sinking his teeth hard into Grimmjow's shoulder.

As he did, Grimmjow let out a sharp roar and pulled back until just the tip of his cock remained, then snapped his hips forward and rammed into the swollen, over-sensitized nub in Ichigo's channel. Ichigo screamed, back bowing as his came, his body convulsing as stars exploded in his head and hot come spilled over his stomach. Above him, Grimmjow snarled and slammed deep, then stilled, face going slack as his cock pulsed and filled Ichigo with his seed.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their breaths. Then Grimmjow leaned down and kissed Ichigo, and it was like their first kiss, like every kiss they had ever shared—part surprise, that it was actually happening; part passion, because they never did anything without it; part burning lust, because there was too much heat between them for violence alone; and part sheer, shocking tenderness, in spite of the constant fighting—or maybe because of it.

They broke apart, drawing shuddering breaths into oxygen-deprived lungs, and Ichigo let his head drop back against the mattress.

"Give up yet?" he managed.

Grimmjow slumped down to cover him, lips ghosting over the tanned throat offered up to him. "No matter how badly I beat you, somewhere deep inside you always think you can beat me," he murmured. "It's those eyes of yours. They keep mocking me. I can't control it anymore."

Ichigo chuckled softly and wrapped one arm around the Arrancar's sweat-slick back, letting his eyes close. Already nearly asleep, he whispered the words, so softly that Grimmjow almost missed them.

"Yeah. Same for me, Grimm."


End file.
